Unclean hl-1

by Richard Lee Byers

  All right, thought Faurgar, now we know for certain that they mean to kill us all. So fight! But he didn't know if he could. Tears were blurring his vision, and even if they hadn't been, the urge to cringe was so strong that he could hardly bear even to look at the warriors. How, then, could he possibly strike a blow?

  As if too full of bloodlust to permit their human comrades an equal share in the killing, the orcs abruptly screamed and charged. One ran straight at Faurgar.

  Fight! he told himself, but when he tried to raise his trowel, his hand shook so badly that he dropped it. Knowing it was craven and useless, but powerless to control himself, he crouched and shielded his torso and face with his arms.

  And as if the Storm Lord were responding to the spectacle of his wretchedness, the night burned white. Prodigious booms shook the earth, and torrents of frigid rain hammered down, ringing on the legionnaires' armor and drumming on everything else.

  The legionnaires faltered in shock. Barely audible over the thunder and the downpour, the commander of the orcs bellowed at his troops. Faurgar couldn't speak their language, but he had a fair idea of what the gray-skinned creature was saying: It's only rain! Go on and kill the rabble as I ordered you to!

  The orcs moved to obey, then a flare of lightning struck a peaked rooftop on the right-hand side of the street. The flash was blinding, the crash loud enough to jab pain into Faurgar's ears, and everyone froze once more.

  One of the human soldiers shouted and pointed. Blinking, Faurgar reflexively glanced to see what had caught the legionnaire's attention. He expected to observe that the thunderbolt had set the shingled roof on fire, but it wasn't so. Rather, a tall, thin man in a red robe stood in the middle of the charred and blackened place where the lightning had struck, as if he'd ridden the bolt down from the sky.

  "That's Szass Tam!" someone exclaimed, and certainly the guards were coming to attention and saluting. Faurgar and his fellows knelt.

  The lich's dark gaze raked over them all, warrior and cornered troublemaker alike. "This won't do," he said. He seemed to speak without raising his voice, yet despite the din of the storm, Faurgar could hear him clearly from yards away.

  "Unlike some," Szass Tam continued, "I'm not eager to see Thayan soldiers slaughtering Thayan citizens, not as long as there's any hope of avoiding it. Accordingly, you legionnaires will give these people one last chance to disperse and retire to their homes in peace."

  "Yes, Your Omnipotence!" the commander of the human guards shouted.

  "And you citizens," the necromancer said, "will do precisely that. I understand that you've behaved as you have out of concern for the realm, and to that degree, your patriotism does you credit, but you can't accomplish anything by damaging your own city and compelling the guards to take harsh action against you. I promise a better outlet for your energies in the days to come.

  "Now go," he concluded, and a heartbeat later, inexplicably, he was gone. Faurgar had been looking straight at him, yet had a muddled sense that he hadn't actually seen the wizard vanish.

  The human officer barked orders. His company divided in the middle, clearing a corridor for Faurgar and his companions to scurry along. The orcs scowled but offered no protest. Szass Tam was their zulkir too.

  Their zulkir, and the greatest person in the world. Thanks to him, Faurgar was going to live.

  Malark stood at the casement watching the lightning dance above the city. The peaceful city. Even those folk who hadn't had the opportunity to hear Szass Tam speak had discovered that cold, blinding, stinging rain washed the fun out of looting, vandalism, and assault, or in the case of the legionnaires, it dissolved their zeal to chase those guilty of such offenses.

  The door clicked open behind him, and he smelled the perfume Dmitra was wearing tonight. He turned and knelt.

  "Rise," she said, crossing his darkened, austerely furnished room, a silver goblet in her hand. "I've received a message from Szass Tam. He's retiring to his estate in High Thay for the time being. I can contact him there, but the implication is that I should refrain except in case of an emergency."

  "Do you think he knows you warned the other zulkirs of his intentions?"

  "By the Black Hand, I hope not. I also hope it was the right thing to do. My instincts told me it was, and they've rarely played me false, but still…" She shook her head.

  "If I may say so, Tharchion, you look tired. If you don't feel ready to sleep, shall we sit and watch the storm together?"

  "Why not?" He moved a pair of chairs up to the window and she sank down into one of them. "Do you have anything to drink, or must I call for a servant?"

  "No wine." Now that she'd come closer, he knew what she'd been drinking. He could smell it on her breath despite the overlay of perfume. "But some of that Hillsfar brandy you like."

  "That will do."

  As he passed behind her to fetch clean cups and the decanter, he automatically thought of how to kill her where she sat. One sudden blow or stranglehold, and no magic would save her, but he didn't actually feel the urge to strike. Aside from the inconvenience to himself, obliged to give up a congenial position and flee Thay just when life here was becoming truly interesting, there wouldn't be anything profoundly appropriate or exceptionally beautiful about the death. Dmitra was his benefactor, perhaps even in a certain sense his friend, and she deserved better.

  She sipped brandy and gazed out at the tempest. "You have to give Szass Tam credit," she said after a time. "First he incites what could have been the worst riot in the history of Eltabbar. He even tricks the mob into believing Nevron and the conjurors sent demons to kill them. Then he ends the crisis in the gentlest way possible, making himself a hero to every person who feared for his life and chattels, every rioter who escaped punishment, and any legionnaire who was squeamish about killing other Thayans."

  Malark smiled. "While simultaneously demonstrating just how powerful he is. I assume it's difficult to spark a storm in a clear sky."

  "Yes, though we Thayans have been the masters of our weather for a long while. I'm actually more impressed by the way he appeared in dozens of places around the city all at the same moment. Obviously, people were actually seeing projected images, yet by all accounts, the phantasms didn't behave identically. They oriented on the folk they were addressing, and if anyone dared to speak to them in turn, they deviated from the standard declaration to answer back. I'm a Red Wizard of Illusion, and I have no idea how one would go about managing that." She laughed. "And this is the creature I opted to betray."

  "But with considerable circumspection, so instead of fretting over what can't be undone, perhaps it would be more productive to contemplate what's just occurred. What game is Szass Tam playing now?"

  "I don't know, but you're right, he is still playing. Otherwise, what's the point of the riot?"

  "He must realize now that the other zulkirs will never proclaim him regent no matter how much he makes lesser folk adore him."

  A gust of wind rattled the casement in its frame.

  "I wonder," Dmitra said. "Suppose he murders another zulkir or two. Suppose he tempts one or more of those who remain with the office of vice-regent, subordinate to himself but superior to all others. Sounds better than death, doesn't it?"

  It didn't to Malark, but he didn't bother saying so. "Now that I think about it, the various orders must be full of Red Wizards who'd love to move up to be zulkir, even if the rank was no longer a position of ultimate authority. It's easy to imagine one or more of them collaborating with Szass Tam. They work together to assassinate Nevron, Samas Kul, or whomever, get the traitor elected to replace him, and afterward the fellow acts as the lich's dutiful supporter."

  Dmitra nodded. "It could happen just that way, but not easily, not when Szass Tam needs a majority on the council, and not with all the other zulkirs now striving assiduously to keep themselves safe. I actually think the game has entered a new phase."

  "Which is?"

  "I wish I knew." She laughed. "I must seem like a
pathetic coward. It's one zulkir against six, who now enjoy my support, yet I'm frightened of the outcome. I have an ugly feeling none of us has ever truly taken Szass Tam's measure, whereas he knows our every strength and weakness. I can likewise imagine our very abundance of archmages proving a hindrance. The lich is a single genius with a coherent strategy maneuvering against a band of keen but lesser minds bickering and working at cross purposes."

  "Then you'll have to make sure that, no matter what the zulkirs imagine, it's actually you calling the tune."

  "A good trick if I can manage it, whereas your task is to figure out what Szass Tam means to do next."

  Malark grinned. "Even though I've never met him, and you tell me he's a genius. It should prove an interesting challenge."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  13–14 Kythorn, the Year of Risen Elfkin

  Borrowing Brightwing's eyes to combat the darkness, Aoth rode the griffon above the mountainsides on the northern edge of the valley. It was a necessary chore. As far as the Thayans could tell, after they'd chased the undead up the pass, the creatures had retreated into the Keep of Thazar, but it was possible they hadn't all done so. Even if they had, with flying wraiths and ghouls possessing a preternatural ability to dig tunnels among their company, it was by no means a certainty that they'd all remain inside the walls. Ergo, someone had to make sure no enemy was slinking through the night.

  "It didn't have to be you," Brightwing said, catching the tenor of his thoughts. "You're an officer now, remember? You could have sent a common soldier and stayed in camp to guzzle beer and rut with your female."

  "I know." Maybe he hadn't been a captain long enough to delegate such tasks as he ought. He'd so often served as a scout, advance guard, or outrider that he still felt a need to observe things for himself whenever possible. "But you're getting fat. We need to work some of the lard off your furry arse."

  Brightwing clashed her beak shut in feigned irritation at the jibe then exclaimed, "Look there!"

  Two beings were descending a slope. One was a living man-a Mulan, to judge from his lanky physique, though his head and chin weren't properly shaved-wearing a sword. Evidently he was a refugee who'd somehow avoided death at the hands of the undead infesting the valley. Gliding along behind him, perceptible primarily as a mote of cold, aching wrongness, was some sort of ghost. No doubt it was stalking him and would attack when ready, though Aoth couldn't imagine what it was waiting on.

  Lady Luck must love you, the war mage silently told the refugee, to keep you alive until Brightwing and I arrived. With a thought, he sent the griffon swooping lower then flourished his spear and rattled off an incantation.

  Darts of blue light hurtled from the head of the lance to pierce the phantom through. The punishment made it more visible, though it was just a pale shadow with a hint of armor in its shape and the suggestion of a blade extending from its hand. It rose into the air as Aoth had hoped it would. He wanted to draw it away from the man on the ground.

  "Run!" Aoth shouted.

  Instead, the stranger called, "Don't attack him! He's my guide! Mirror, don't fight! Come back to me!"

  Aoth hesitated. Was the man a necromancer and "Mirror" his familiar?

  Maybe not, because the ghost kept on flying at Aoth and his mount, and after his recent experiences with the undead, he had no intention of giving it the benefit of the doubt. He wheeled Brightwing in an attempt of keep away from the spirit and chanted words of power. For a moment, Mirror wavered into a short, broad, better-defined figure not unlike himself, then melted into blur once more.

  "Stop!" the refugee roared, and his voice echoed from the mountainsides like thunder.

  A palpable jolt made Brightwing screech and spoiled the mystic gesture necessary for the completion of Aoth's spell. Mirror's misty substance rippled like water, and then it-or he-floated back down toward the stranger like a hound called to heel.

  With their psyches linked, Aoth could taste Brightwing's anger almost as if it were his own. She believed the man they'd been seeking to rescue had treacherously attacked them, but striving for clarity of thought despite the flare of emotion, Aoth discerned that the magical cry hadn't actually injured her, and the stranger had targeted both her and Mirror. Maybe he'd just been trying to halt the confrontation without harm to any of the parties involved.

  "Calm yourself," he told the griffon. "Let's land and talk to him."

  "I'd rather land and tear him apart," Brightwing snarled, but once she'd furled her wings and glided to the ground, she held her position several paces away from Mirror and the stranger.

  Not so sure of the peculiar duo's benign intentions that he cared to dismount, Aoth remained in the saddle. "I'm Aoth Fezim, captain and battle wizard in the Griffon Legion of Pyarados. Who are you, and what are you doing wandering in this region?"

  "My name is Bareris Anskuld," the stranger replied, and when Aoth viewed him up close, his haggard weariness was apparent. Weariness and something more. He had a bleakness about him, as if something of vital importance to him had gone horribly, irreparably awry. "A bard and sellsword. I've been lost in the mountains and trying to find my way out. I met Mirror, and he chose to lead me. Is that the Pass of Thazar below us?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Thank you for the information and for trying to help when you thought I was in danger. Mirror and I will move on now, if it's all right with you."

  Aoth snorted. "No, musician, it's not 'all right.' You need to give a better account of yourself than that, considering that my comrades and I are fighting a war of sorts in the vale."

  "A war? With whom?"

  "Undead that came out of the mountains to the north, the same as you and your ghost friend."

  The bard's eyes narrowed, and though he seemed no less despondent than before, his taut expression now bespoke a bitter resolve. "In that case, Captain, you should hear my tale in its entirety."

  It had taken most of the night to put the little meeting together while making sure none of the necromancers learned of it, and eyes smarting, nerves raw with tension and lack of sleep, Nymia Focar looked around the shadowy tent at the other three folk in attendance and found something to dislike in each of them.

  Though evidently a Mulan of sorts and gifted with a facility for one of the lesser forms of magic, Bareris Anskuld was essentially a filthy, ragged vagabond. It was preposterous to imagine he had anything of importance to relate.

  Despite his advanced years and the forfeiture of his rest, Milsantos Daramos, Tharchion of Thazalhar, looked fresh and alert and stood straight as a spear shaft. He'd even taken the trouble to put on his armor. That was reason enough to dislike the old man with his seamed face and shaggy white brows even if she hadn't resented the necessity of begging his aid to salvage her province and the fact that everyone considered him a better commander than herself.

  She found, however, that Aoth vexed her most of all. The half-breed had his uses, but she never should have promoted him. The pressures of command had evidently disposed him to absurd apprehensions and fancies. Rather to her embarrassment, he'd already blathered about them in one council of war, and here he was, making a fool of himself again, and dressing her in motley and bells as well.

  For he'd somehow managed to persuade her to give Bareris a hearing in the covert manner he desired, and she winced to think what might happen if the Red Wizards learned she'd gone behind their backs.

  She supposed that meant it behooved her to get this nonsense over with as rapidly as possible, to minimize the possibility of anyone else finding out about it. "Let's hear it," she rapped.

  Aoth had already given her the gist of the story in terse summation, but Bareris told it in detail and was more persuasive than she'd expected. Perhaps the very strangeness of the tale made it seem more credible, for how-to say nothing of why-would anyone make such things up?

  But she wanted the story to be false. Since her audience with the zulkirs and Iphegor Nath, everything had gone splendidly, until she was ready
to retake the Keep of Thazar itself. The lack of siege equipment shouldn't prove an insurmountable obstacle if the Burning Braziers performed as promised. She didn't need complications arising at the last moment.

  So she did her best to pick holes in Bareris's story. "If you wanted to take slaves into the mountains, why not just march them there directly? Why bother with Delhumide and a portal?"

  "Because they didn't want anyone to see the thralls going east," Bareris answered, "lest he draw a connection between them and the raiders."

  "Also," said Milsantos, idly fingering a raised gilded rune on his breastplate, "it would be easier. The Sunrise Mountains are difficult terrain to negotiate and swarming with wild goblin and kobold tribes to boot."

  "Still," she said, "where's the proof this story is true?"

  "The proof," Aoth said, "is that Bareris's report illuminates matters we couldn't understand before. The enemy was able to overcome the priest in Thazar Keep, send lacedons swimming downriver, and reanimate the folk they slaughtered in such quantities because they aren't all undead. Some are living necromancers."

  "That isn't proof," she snapped, "it's speculation."

  She realized she craved a drink, and despite a suspicion that, tired and upset as she was, it would do her more harm than good, she picked up a half-finished bottle of wine. The cork made a popping sound as she pulled it out.

  "Tharchion," Bareris said, "if my word isn't good enough, let me tell my story to one of the Burning Braziers. He can use clerical magic to verify that I'm speaking the truth."

  Nymia had no desire to involve another person in their deliberations. Besides, she abruptly discerned that, much as she'd struggled to deny the perception, her instincts told her the bard was being honest.

  She looked around for a clean cup, couldn't find one-she'd allowed her orderly to retire earlier-and swigged sweet white wine from the neck of the bottle. The stuff immediately roiled her stomach.